


You sat on your rock

by geckoplasm



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Happy Ending, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, References to Depression, Victor's Backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9519332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoplasm/pseuds/geckoplasm
Summary: The gold medal feels heavy around his neck. They used to feel like the sun: something to strive for, to fly towards. Now they’re just rocks, covered in dirt. They weigh him down and keep his head bowed; he can’t see the sun anymore. He doesn’t fly. He trudges.





	1. Chapter 1

_While he sang all his heart said to the sound of his sweet lyre, the bloodess ghosts themselves were weeping, and the anxious Tantalus stopped clutching at return-flow of the wave, Ixion’s twisting wheel stood wonderbound…and even you, O Sisyphus, sat idly on your rock!_  
_\- Ovid_

 

When Victor is seven he wins the local rink’s children’s competition. His routine lasts one and a half minutes, and includes a double-flip and double-axel. None of the other children can do a double-axel. He knows this because Nadia told him he was amazing and Nikolai tripped him two days ago outside the rink. Still, it’s not as if he knew he was going to win, because Nikolai is stronger and taller and, at 10, has been skating for longer. When Sasha gets called up, and Nikolai goes next, he thinks that’s the end of it. Everyone else had fallen over – including him, when he’d spontaneously tried a double-loop at the very end. Victor just resolves to try harder next year. He’ll be taller when he’s eight, and maybe Nikolai will stop pushing him every week. Maybe he’ll even give up figure skating completely. Nikolai. Not Victor. He can’t imagine ever giving up skating.

But then his name is called out, and Nadia’s pushing him up. Nikolai and some of the others don’t clap when he climbs the podium but his mother hollers and cheers enough that he barely notices. He’s distracted by how the other mothers are side-eying her, and how she obviously doesn’t care. It makes him not care that he’ll probably get pushed more often now. He beams up at her when the ribbon is pinned to his chest. He feels light and bright, like a helium balloon in his belly. He’ll just bounce and float if he’s pushed. Or tripped.

 

There’s a strange man talking to his mother when he finally gets back to her. It had taken ages to change and put away his skates. Mostly because he’d been chatting to Nadia, but he’s sure his mother won’t mind. The man is short, and looks grumpy enough to be a troll, although Victor of course doesn’t say this until much later, when it’s just him and his mother (and must later again after that, after the man becomes Yakov). Now though, he just approaches quietly.

“Vitya, congratulations!” His mother exclaims when she sees hi, wrapping her arms around him. Every hug is further proof that she gives the best hugs.

“Congratulations Victor,” The strange man says. He’s holding a hat. It’s grey, like his suit. It’s ugly, also like his suit. Victor doesn’t any of this either, and just thanks the strange man.

“This is Yakov Feltsman. He’s a figure skating coach,” His mother explains.

“Do you like skating?” The strange man named Yakov Feltsman asks. Victor nods. It’s a stupid question, but he supposes he shouldn’t judge him. Adults are strange, and not all of them realize that skating and dogs are the best things in the whole world, “Do you want to keep skating?” Victor nods again. (Later, after a long training session during which Victor flawlessly mimics Yakov the entire time, Yakov will complain that Victor was supposed to have been shy, mature and respectful – like he seemed as a little boy. Victor will almost give himself a hernia remembering how hard he’d had to concentrate not to sass Yakov at seven years old. Yakov will become even more dismayed on learning this.)

“Mr Feltsman thinks you might be good enough to compete nationally in a few years. He can help you. Would you like to try?” Victor nods again. It sounds too good to be true but if his mother believes the strange man then he will too.

“You’re going to be a champion Victor. I can tell.”

 

He has to change schools. The new one is closer to the new rink, and apparently the teachers don’t care that he leaves early half the days. He misses Nadia for a bit, but then he meets Dina so it’s okay. She leaves class early too, but she does ballet. She loves it because “it’s the best thing in the world”. But obviously skating is the best thing in the world. It’s confusing, and it makes his mother laugh when he complains about it one afternoon. There can’t be two best things in the world. All the kids at the rink think figure skating is the best too.

Most of them, anyway. The ones who don’t really love it don’t stay very long, Victor learns. Mr Feltsman is kind of mean, even if he only takes them once a week. Some of the kids cry after practice.

“Does he yell at you?” His mother asks at dinner. Victor shakes his head. Mr Feltsman never yells at the kids. They can hear him yell at some adults sometimes, if they arrive a bit early.

“He just makes you keep trying until you do it,” He explains.

“What if you can’t do it?” His mother presses.

“I always can. Sometimes it takes me a few goes though. He says ‘I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think you could do it’.” His mother smiles.

“What did he get you to do today?”

“We had to skate patterns in cones but the cones were random. And we had to do it smoothly. Not sharp turns.” Victor looks down at his hands. He doesn’t want to tell her how Alyona fell and got a bloody nose, “I found it pretty easy. You just pretend there’s music and the cones are the beats and you move in time.”

“Are you having fun?”

“Yes!” They smile at each other. He feels like sunshine inside.

 

It is fun. It’s four times a week of skating lessons. Mr Feltsman takes them on Monday afternoons. His assistant Taras takes them the other days. Mr Feltsman talks with a really gravelly voice, like he’s growling. Victor does a pretty good impression of Mr Feltsman as a dog. It makes some of the other kids laugh. Even if Mr Feltsman and Taras are meaner than Olga from his old rink, it’s still more skating than he could do before. And Mr Feltsman ‘doesn’t believe in games’, also unlike Olga, so it doesn’t matter that most of the other kids hardly talk to Victor. His mother would be worried if he told her that, so he doesn’t. He just talks to her about Alyona, who does talk to him. And always laughs at his jokes. She’s good, but he’s better, so he tries to help her. Only, he’s not very good at explaining himself so he’s not sure it’s helpful at all.

“I’m sure she appreciates the effort,” His mother says. But he’s not convinced. He keeps trying for a few weeks though. He wants to help.

 

“The new kid is pretty weird, hey?” It’s Alexei. Victor flushes, face hot and uncomfortable, frozen around the corner, “He’s so quiet and serious.”

“He’s nice!” It’s Alyona, defending him. His face flushes again, for a different reason, “He’s just a little shy. Once you talk to him he’s really nice!” Alexei laughs.

“He’s so stuck up though. ‘Alyona, try lifting your leg more.’ ‘Alyona, your arms should be more like a fairy.’ ‘Alyona, listen to the music’. There’s never any music. He’s crazy.”

Alyona stops talking to him that afternoon. Victor tells himself that it doesn’t matter. He’s here because he likes skating, and because Mr Feltsman thinks he’s good at it. And there is music – every time! So he skates more, and better.

 

“Again, Victor! Relax your leg. Yes, like that. Good.”

After a few months, Mr Feltsman starts splitting up the class into smaller groups. Where before they had all done the same thing in turns, now each small group gets its own exercises. Victor, Alexei and Evgeniya are together. They’re both older than him. He doesn’t care about that. He likes Evgeniya. She barely says anything at all; just stares at Mr Feltsman and nods firmly to herself before she does anything asked of her. But Alexei is still belligerent. He doesn’t just make fun of Victor. Where Victor gets his laughs from playing hide and seek, and pulling faces at other kids behind Mr Feltsman’s back, Alexei prefers to pull seats out from under other kids just before they sit down, or pinch them. He’s in Victor’s class at school too, and he frequently makes Dina cry. He pulls her plaits, literally. Victor knows why the three of them have been put together: they take the least amount of time to perfect each new exercise Mr Feltsman gives them. And there’s no shortage: balancing on a beam, or skating through cones, jumps, steps, backwards, forwards. What might take the others a week, the three of them can usually do in an afternoon. It’s nice to be able to do more complicated exercises now. But he wishes Alexei weren’t there.

 

“Are you okay Vitya?” He looks up at his mother and nods, “You’re a little quieter than usual tonight. Did something happen?”

“I couldn’t get the triple flip today.” His mother smiles.

“And so you’re upset?” He shakes his head.

“I’m annoyed.”

“Why?”

“I had to leave before I could get it. I didn’t get to finish. And I don’t go back for two days.”

“Do you want to go to the rink tomorrow?”

“Yes,” He nods, “please.”

 

“I’m not going to discourage him, Marko!” His mother is whisper-yelling on the phone. He just wanted a glass of water, but he’s too afraid to go into the kitchen now.

“He’s eight. What does it matter if he misses some school? He likes to skate and he’s good at it. And for goodness sake, he doesn’t need to cut his hair.” He can’t hear what his father is saying, but his mother’s knuckles are going white. They almost glow against the back of the phone.

“It’s not a fucking pipedream. He’s good. Which you would know if you ever came to watch him.” Victor goes back up the stairs. He doesn’t really need a glass of water after all.

And he’s not good. He’s going to be the best.

 

“I’m going to quit ballet next year,” Dina says to him at lunch one day. He drops his water bottle.

“Why? You love it!” She shrugs.

“My feet hurt all the time. And it’s boring,” He doesn’t understand. How can something you love be boring? “We just do the same thing all the time. Over and over and over!”

“But that’s how you get better.”

“But I don’t want to be the best. I want to have fun doing ballet. All we do is exercises now. There’s no dance. It’s no fun.”

“But isn’t it fun to get better?”

“It’s just hard.”

“But – ”

“I don’t care! It’s boring. And you know, I like other stuff too! Like painting and, and other kinds of dancing! I’m not like you.”

Victor doesn’t reply. He does like other things, like dogs and trains. But it’s not the same, he knows. All he _really_ likes is skating.

 

“Vitya,” His mother says seriously that evening, after he tells her what Dina said, “Don’t ever be ashamed or afraid to be who you are and love what you love. You like figuring skating – ”

“And I’m good at it,” He interrupts.

“And you’re good at it. But that’s less important than liking it.”

“But I want to be good at it.”

“Do you want to be good at ballet, or maths?” Victor thinks that it’s pretty obvious that he doesn’t want to be good at maths. Ballet he hasn’t tried, but maths he has and he’d rather not do any of it at all, really. He shakes his head, “Why not?”

“Because it’s not fun. Figuring skating is fun, and exciting! And cool – you can jump and spin, and go really really fast. And you can make music on the ice. That’s what Mr Feltsman says. And I want to do all of that. And more. So I have to be good.”

 

“Vitya, again! Do it again. You can do better.”

So he does it again. Months pass. Dina quits ballet. Years pass. He does it again. Alyona quits skating. His father quits asking Victor to stop. Victor doesn’t quit. Victor skates, and Victor gets better.

 

When Victor is 12 he wins his first serious medal. It’s the Russian national competition. He gets bronze. His mother cheers and he beams up at her. It’s his first time competing at this level, so he didn’t expect to place. Alexei will probably give him hell next week, but he doesn’t care.

Yakov is talking to his mother when he gets back.

“He can be better. He can be the best, maybe,” His mother sees him approaching, and mutters something he can’t hear, flaps her hands. He’s not sure why.

“Congratulations, Vitya!” Yakov nods.

“Well done,” and Victor knows what’s coming, “You messed up the rhythm of your step sequence.”

“And my choreographed sequence was off too.” Yakov nods. His mother looks aghast.

“You were beautiful!” He grins.

“I know. I can be better.”

 

“Vitya,” His mother says quietly, peeking into his room, “You don’t…Are you having fun? Skating.”

“Of course!” He smiles.

“Do you feel any pressure?”

“Some, yeah – sometimes. When I know I could do something before and can’t anymore, or when Alexei beats me at something. But neither of those things happen often.”

“And you don’t want to try something new? Like hockey? Or dance?”

“No! Why? Do you want me to? I really don’t want to stop.”

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure that you’re doing what you like, and that you’re having fun. It doesn’t matter if you’re not the best, or if you can’t do something.”

“I don’t care about being the best,” He says. It’s only a little bit of a lie, “I care about doing better.” That’s all truth, though.

 

His training goes more intense. He takes more time off school. He stops getting invited to birthday parties. He stops trying to talk to kids in his class. He has long since stopped caring whether or not they think he’s weird and obsessed.

Some of the girls at the rink fall in love. His parents talk less and less. Yakov argues with Lilia more and more. Victor’s reminded of his parents, of the shut doors, the slap of a palm against wood and the car starting in the middle of the night. He knows what’s coming. None of it matters to Victor.

“What’s wrong with you?” Alexei sneers. Victor doesn’t answer. There’s nothing wrong with him. Alexei calls him a robot, obsessive, sociopathic, delusional, “You’ve got a problem.”

“No, you have,” Victor finally retorts, standing up and heading to the rink, “I keep beating you.” And he’s sure, if Yakov hadn’t clapped his hands and called for attention, Alexei would have beaten him up.

 

Evgeniya stops skating the next year. She cries. He cries.

“My hips aren’t right,” She explains, looking ashamed, “I’m never going to grow taller and my proportions aren’t right. I’ll never be able to be competitive at a Senior-level.” And that’s just not fair, Victor thinks. That someone can work so hard, and love something so much, and just not be able to do it. Yakov looks sad when Victor says this. His mother too.

“Is that going to happen to me?” He dares to ask her.

“Most likely not. Your measurements are all in line,” She reassures. He frowns, “We went to the doctor, remember? A few years ago. Your projections are all fine to continue skating competitively.”

And so he doesn’t stop skating. He doesn’t stop getting better.

 

They spend less time on exercises and more time on routines, now. They try different combinations, rearrange the steps – figure out the limits of his endurance. When they find something that works, he works at it until he falls from exhaustion, until he can dream the routines perfectly, until he doesn’t have to think and then past that point to when he can analyse himself during the routines, and adjust to improve.

He gets sponsored. His father stops worrying about the cost of his skating. He stops telling him to cut his hair.

 

When Victor is 14 he wins his first Junior Grand Prix championship. There’s a gold medal hanging around his neck, and his mother is cheering for him, looking at him like he hung the moon. He feels invincible – strong enough for anything. Strong enough to steal the moon and hang it around his neck.

“Congratulations, Victor,” A reporter says afterwards, flashing lights into Victor’s eyes. Yakov growls behind him. They back off. A little.

Another one jumps in, “You’ve just won your first GP gold. And yesterday you broke the Russian record for a Junior Short Program. How do you feel?”

“Great!” He can feel Yakov tense behind him. It is possible that Victor should have taken his advice and practiced some answers.

“How do you feel about claims that you’re the next great Russian skater?” Victor can barely think. He’s so tired. But he has to say something good or Yakov will ground him. Into dust.

“I love skating,” He says finally, “And I want to be good at it. So I’d rather be the first Victor Nikiforov.” And that’s a hit. The cameras flash somehow even more frenetically, and there’s a rising flurry of voices calling out at him. But Yakov relaxes behind him, and steers him away.

 

The newspaper has an article on him the next day: ‘The first of his kind’. It talks about his grace, and youthful energy. How he’s achieved new highs in the Junior Competition. ‘He makes music on the ice’, it reads, ‘It’s impossible to look away at this unique young man’. Victor stops reading when the article goes on about how the audience felt graced to watch him. It’s a little ridiculous. Still, it’s nice being called ‘Russia’s new hope’. It’s extra nice because he’s sure that Alexei’s face went purple when he read it.

“Vitya,” His mother scolds, “You’re being cruel.” He is, although he thinks it’s deserved, “Stop worrying about him. That boy hasn’t been serious competition for you in years.”

“That’s cruel!” They laugh together. But it’s true. Georgi is the only one at Yakov’s rink that might pose a threat, and Yakov’s rink is the only one in Russia that matters.

 

Victor grows the next year, and it throws everything out. He can’t land any triple for months, and his spins are a disaster. He feels like a walking bruise.

“Again, Vitya. Again.”

And so he does. He keeps trying. He keeps falling. He keeps getting up again. He keeps skating. Eventually, he gets back to what he could do before. Yakov is unsurprised.

“Of course you would. Why would I ask you to do it if I thought you couldn’t?”

His mother is relieved. So is he.

“I was worried,” He confides in her. She startles, “I felt like, I don’t know. I had climbed halfway up a cliff and fallen down before I could get to the top.” She hums.

“Or like when the radio cuts out before the end of the song?” He nods furiously. She always knows what he means. She continues, “Are you still having fun?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t hesitate. The falling isn’t fun, but the moment before – when he’s flying and beautiful, that’s fun. It’s worth it.

 

He comes in third in his second Junior Grand Prix. It’s disappointing. But he doesn’t care. The medal means nothing compared to the throbbing in his knee. He’d fallen out of his quad-flip and landed awkwardly. Nothing is broken, he’s sure of it. But something is definitely wrong. Instead of the press he gets a doctor and a scan, and a sore hand from how tightly his mother is holding it.

“I want to get to the end of the song,” He whispers, trusting that she’ll remember.

“Vitya,” She murmurs.

“This can’t be the end. It’s not fair.”

He’s reminded of Evgeniya, who quit before she was forced to, betrayed by her body. She was the leading Junior contender for a year, scouted as young as Victor. Did they ever write news articles about her? There are so many of them: young talents. He doesn’t want to be a ‘could have been’. He wants to do more, make more music, push harder, again and again. He wants to keep skating. 


	2. Chapter 2

_It is comic that Don Juan has 1,003 mistresses, for the number simply indicates that they have no value. Therefore one should stay within one’s means in the use of the word ‘love’._

_\- Kierkegaard_

 

“Again, Vitya! You look resolved. Where is the naivety? The beautiful ignorance?”

“I am resolved.”

“So resolve to stop showing everything on your face! You are 18 and a fairy-tale – remember? Not a professional athlete. Again!”

Victor flies. He’s weightless, he’s beautiful. The ice is the sky; he’s dancing across the clouds. A waltz with angels, and – goddamn. An under-rotated quad-toe.

“Again. Fly. Flying is effortless. You are grimacing. Are you hurt?” Yakov adds as an afterthought.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. You just lack stamina.” Victor groans. But he goes again. He flies, he soars. He circles from above. It’s hard to pretend that he’s a bird flying free when really, he’s a part of the rink. He’s put down roots and been captured and tangled with the vines of concrete and ice. 10 years of skating here – he’s almost part of the furniture. A glittering couch, or a metallic table. Hardly a fairy-tale.

Still, Yakov looks less irritated when he finishes this time.

“Acceptable.”

“Oh, why thank you,” Victor bows, grins cheekily at Yakov. God he loves riling him up.

“Don’t sass me. And you need to build more muscle.”

“Not this season.”

“You can’t stay waif-like forever, Vitya. You’re a man now, not a boy.”

‘But I can be neither for one more season.”

“Don’t you want to try something else?”

“I want to – ”

“Be better, yes, I know. You’re a little repetitive.” Victor arches a brow and smirks,

“Ah Yakov, you break my heart. Again and again and again, Vitya again!” His hands clasped together, eyes wide, he flutters his lashes at Yakov. Yakov does not disappoint. Victor mouths with him,

“You will be the death of me,” But then Yakov moves off-script, voice more serious, “Vitya, make sure you actually rest on your rest days this week.”

“Yakov!” He’s scandalised. Well, he’s not but he can pretend, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

 

Victor knows exactly what Yakov means, and it’s none of his business. What he does during his leisure time, or more precisely, who he does, is no-one’s business but his own. And the other person, of course. He’s young and beautiful – it’s not conceited if it’s the truth – and horny. What does Yakov expect him to do?

“Maybe find someone and date for a while?” Georgi suggests as Victor rants in the locker-room.

“I don’t want to date anyone. Dating requires being in love and how can I possibly be in love with anyone when I spent 12 hours a day skating or thinking about skating. I’m perfectly happy – ”

“Being a slut?” Georgi rolls his eyes at Victor’s faux-aghast expression, “Is everyone you sleep with and discard perfectly happy too?” Georgi thinks he sounds mature, Victor knows. But the effect is somewhat ruined by the blush on his cheeks.

“Excuse me. There is no sleeping, and certainly no discarding. I can assure you we are very satisfied –”

“I don’t think I need to hear anymore,” Georgi interrupts.

“Of course not,” Victor replies smoothly. He waits for Georgi to relax, and then: “I’m sure what you really want to talk about is the fascinating way Maria’s hips sway – so sensual, am I right, Georgi?” He cackles as Georgi flushes bright red and stiffly walks away.

There really aren’t that many, he muses as he walks home. It’s just that since his 18th birthday, there haven’t been none. But he’s moved out and he’s finished school, so there’s now some time and a place. Really, the judgement frustrates him. Even if he wanted to date someone – which he doesn’t – there are hardly a lot of options. He has few friends, and his rink mates are either much younger than him, or equally disinterested in dating, or frankly undate-able, or all three.

 

“And what could I even offer? I can rarely go out to eat, I do almost the same thing every day and every week. It’s not like I’m the king of conversation. ‘What did you do today?’ ‘Something I love but I’ve already told you about ad nauseum because it’s the same everyday’. And I have no time!”

“You’re really worked up about this,” His mother observes, dryly. He sighs.

“Yeah. People look at me like I’m stupid when I’m not. Yakov should know me better.”

“You feel like you’re doing the right thing for you – these casual flings?” ‘I have a lot to offer in bed and nothing to offer in a relationship’, he wants to say but doesn’t. ‘I like to be busy and I like to get busy’, he also doesn’t say. ‘God no, but this is the closest I can get to love, so I’ll take it’, he definitely doesn’t say. He settles eventually for a different truth, but a truth nonetheless. His mother always gets the truth.

“I don’t know. But I wanted to so I did, and it really isn’t anyone’s place to judge.” His mother hums.

“As long as you’re busy safe.” He screeches.

“You can’t say that! You’re not allowed to even think it!”

“Well, pardon me, but you did call _me_ out of the blue and launch into a complaint about how Yakov should stop going on about your getting it on, so you invited this yourself.”

“No no no no.”

“Vitya, you’re an adult now. You can what and whoever you like. But try to think about it with your brain and not your – ”

“I’m fine, really,” He interrupts hurriedly, “I know Yakov has fretted to you.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, yeah,” and more softly, “Thanks.”

 

Victor likes to flirt. It’s easy, and fun, and funny. He’s good-looking enough that all he really has to do is smile and people smile back. Yakov lets him handle the press on his own now. He’s worked out how to be smooth and charming, how to give enough of an answer without giving himself away. So when interviewers start asking about relationships, because he’s 18 now and its fair game, he lets them. Smiles and winks and says,

“No, I’m not in a relationship right now,” and winks. The image of Victor Nikiforov, playboy extraordinaire, paints itself. It’s almost disgustingly easy. He’d be offended at how little they think of him, but he really just doesn’t care.

 

“You have Georgi for competition this year, Vitya. Don’t slack,” Yakov reminds him. It’s true, technically. It’s Georgi’s first year as a Senior. His costume makes no sense, in Victor’s opinion. The make is … distracting. Hopefully, he’ll learn to tone it down over time. But Victor doesn’t slack. Victor has never slacked off on skating. He hasn’t lost a national title since he was 15 and he doesn’t intend to start now. Certainly, he doesn’t intend to lose to Georgi.

So he trains. He lets his ‘extra-curricular activities’ lapse, so to speak, to the undisguised joy of Yakov. (It’ not until much later that he learns how genuinely concerned Yakov was for his safety, and how insincerely concerned his sponsors were with his image.) The playboy image, however, sticks. It makes interviews easy; a lot of time gets used up winking at and flirting with reporters. It makes the women laugh, and the men look enlightened. Where Georgi agonises over how to answer questions sincerely, Victor breezes through.

 

He sweeps the season with a gold, two silvers, a bronze and a new personal high score.

At the start of the off-season, he does a series of advertisements for a cologne, tuxedos; he gets paid to wear very nice watches and scarves. He lets people shine bright lights in his face for a week, likes in lilies or stands in front of a green screen or a modern apartment block, fans blow his hair. They call him ‘ethereal’; he sends the magazine to his mother. She sends him back a cut out of the sports commentator’s opinion piece degrading his androgyny. He does another few photoshoots, this time in dresses. She sends another, even less coherent, piece. It’s a distraction that pays the bills, and fill some of his time in the boring months of recuperation.

 

“How do you do it?” Georgi asks him one morning.

“Do what?”

“Always be so…disciplined. Dedicated.” Victor knows that means ‘obsessed’. He hears them talking about him in voices that alternate between awed and pitying; he can feel them watching from the bleachers. Yakov lets them watch, tells them to learn from his perfections and mistakes. He doesn’t particularly care.

“I love skating,” He finally responds, pulling his laces tight.

“Yeah, but – ”

“But what?” Victor interrupts, “What else could I possibly want to do?”

“It’s the off-season. You could go on holiday.” I’ve got nowhere to go; who wants to go on holiday alone, Victor thinks but doesn’t say.

“So why are you here?” He says instead. Georgi looks to the side, and mutters.

“Yakov told me my spins needed work. I wanted to get in some practice while everyone else was away.” Of course, Victor remembers; Georgie had been off-balance. Too stiff.

“I can help, if you’d like. It’s always good to have a second pair of eyes. I think I can figure out what’s wrong.”

“I know what I’m doing wrong,” Georgi says tightly. Victor sighs.

“Great, then I’m sure you’ll improve rapidly,” He replies easily, heading towards the ice. He was going to do some work on his step sequences, but no-one needs to know that. He’ll do spins instead today. Georgi looks like he’s ready to kill him. Still, his eyes rarely leave his spins. By the end of the morning, they will both have improved.

He cuts his hair one summer. The newspapers make it sound like a national tragedy. He gets asked about it for weeks. Did he finally cave to the pressure of that one asshole in the newspaper, or did his sponsors put their foot down, or was he simply sick of spending so long washing it? He lets them wonder. Nothing good comes from spoiling a mystery.

“Just wanted a change,” He says. On the fan forums he knows that they debate whether something actually happened.

Yakov suggests that this year he do a routine of growing up: a knight, a quest. Victor insists on having a role in the choreography. The choreographer – one of Russia’s best – looks shell-shocked. Yakov looks about to blow a casket. But Victor’s firm.

“I’m not a puppet. I don’t want to dance around to someone else’s whim, directed around the rink. I want the routine to be mine, so it needs some of me in the choreography.” His speech seems to smooth the ruffled feathers of the choreographer, although he’s sure he’ll get an earful from Yakov later.

 

The routines are wonderful, even Yakov has to admit it. They are heavier than his previous work, more ‘masculine’ the newspaper say. He hates that word, refuses to use it, prefers to describe the pieces as they actually are: rhythmic, energetic, expressionist, staccato, spirited, frenetic. He tries to remain calm when the media stick with ‘masculine’.

 

The gold at the Grand Prix eludes him, again. But he takes the silver, and wins gold at the Russian Nationals, again. It’s not a surprise this year. It still feels good though – who wouldn’t want to be called the best of their country?

“Victor! Victor!” There are cameras flashing everywhere. Lights reflecting on his watch, the tiles, it’s dizzying.

“Congratulations on your recent win!”

“Thank you,” He smiles.

“What’s next for you?”

“It’s on the start of the competitive season. The ice will be heating up now!”

“No rest for the wicked?” Victor laughs, and winks. Let them make their insinuations of his wickedness.

“Unfortunately not. Got to keep the ball rolling.”

 

The hallways are silent as he walks out. Every time he turns a corner he could swear there’s chatter that stops abruptly. He doesn’t bother to look around. Maybe he’s imagining it, maybe he’s not.

 

Yakov gives him more ice time, and more one-on-one time. It doesn’t help Victor’s reputation The weight of the glares behind his back increases; the silence permeates wherever he is. It’s heavy too.

He doesn’t stop skating. He doesn’t stop getting better. He wins gold at the Olympics, and at the European Championships. He places at Worlds.

 

The off-season is more boring than ever. The rink shuts down for a fortnight for renovation. Victor almost pulls out his hair for wont of anything to do.

“Take a break,” Yakov said. Victor lasts four days before he starts to choreograph. He’d thought about it before – he’d enjoyed his exposure to it this season. It fills the time. Even when the rink opens again, he keeps at it in the evenings. He’s busy again, even if it is self-imposed. It’s a challenge too – to get a balanced routine, to imagine something he can’t yet do, to create something beautiful. He can challenge himself, make more complicated sequences, that no-one could dream he could do before. It’s his little secret.  

 

“You’re in a better mood,” Yakov remarks one morning. He looks pleased, “I don’t need to know why thought. Spare an old man the sordid details.”

“We don’t need to know either,” Georgi says quickly. Mila looks curious enough, but she’s too young and new to defy Georgia ns ask. He hadn’t wanted to tell anyone about his new hobby. He hadn’t wanted to admit he was a little bored with jut skating. It felt like failure, like cheating. But now that he realized no-one cared, or that they thought so little of him that no-one could conceive that anything productive made him happy, he was suddenly burning with desire to tell them all. Yell it even.

He doesn’t. His cheeks burn. His gut twists. Is this shame? How unexpected.

 

“Vitya, you need something else in your life!”

“Nonsense,” He laughs, “I have a job I love, an apartment of my own and a mother to lunch with once a week. What more could a man want?”

“A boyfriend? An education? A hobby?” He rolls his eyes.

“I don’t have time.”

“There are 24 hours in the day. What do you spend your evenings doing?” He’s silent. Finally, someone is asking, and he’s unexpectedly embarrassed, “Vitya?”

“I choreograph. I design costumes too,”

“I didn’t know you did that.”

“I’m not all that good at costumes yet. But the choreography, yeah. I don’t think I’ll ever need to hire another one.”

“Well, that’s something. I wish you’d do something not related to figure skating, but I suppose that’s too much to hope for. You were never very good at multi-tasking.”

“Hey!” But he knows it’s true. Studying for tests during the competitive season was a fantasy of his teachers, but never a reality.

 

He does his knee again the next season, a week before the Grand Prix Final.

“Too much heavy lifting,” He jokes. It’s not funny. It’s frustrating and frightening. His training was going well. He was having a record good season – new high scores at both La Trophee de France and the Rostelecom Cup.  Now it’s cut short. He had pushed himself to new heights. Had pushed too much apparently, his body had given out under the strain. Still, he’s cheated death before, escaped from the clutches of injury and forced retirement. He can do it again.

“It’s a bit of déjà vu, really,” He tells his mother. Her voice is ridden with static as she replies,

“What do the doctors say?”

“I’m out for the rest of this season. Possibly even next, depending on how the surgery goes. But the chances are good that I’ll make a complete recovery back to competitive form.” There’s a gush of static. She must have released a breath, “I’ll be fine.”

It’s nice to have someone looking out for him, someone who is unconcerned with his scores and medals, who just cares about him for him. He knows this, of course, all the time. Still, the reminder makes him feel lighter.

“So what now?” He hums, questioningly.

“You’ve got a period of mandated rehab, rest and recovery. What are you going to do?”

 

Victor buys a dog.

It was silly, really, but he hadn’t thought about what he’d do while prohibited from the ice and the gym. Once he’d heard that his chances were good, he’d immediately started thinking about next year’s routines. But he hadn’t considered that there would be months with only the physiotherapist to talk to. That’s unkind, he knows. Yakov and his mother call. He texts a few skating friends here and there. But mostly they’re busy competing. He can’t believe he misses the small talk and teasing with Georgi.

So he gets Makkachin. (Looking back, this may be the second-best decision he ever makes in his life, but he doesn’t know that yet.) He’s got the time to learn how to train a dog, the time to dedicate to practicing commands and tricks, going on walks. He loves the silly puppy, the way he trips over his own feet, paws too big, when he scrambles to get to Victor. He loves the huffs of breath and the tongue to the face each morning. He can’t imagine anything else so cute, and precious, than his one, his only Makkachin.

Not than anyone else seems to appreciate him. Yakov threatens to fire him as a student if he sends one more photo.

“You can’t fire me! I’ve hired you! That’s not how it works!”

“I don’t care.”

Georgi and Mila seem equally annoyed, even if they are less explosive than Yakov. Even his mother asks him to stop with the blow-by-blow updates of every cute thing Makkachin does.

“It’s too bad they don’t love you,” Victor says, ruffling Makakchin’s ears, “But don’t you care about them. I adore you plenty.”

 

The off-season passes slowly. Victor plays with Makkachin. He grits his teeth through the physiotherapy, plans out new routines. He dreams each night of skating. He will keep skating, he says over and over, voice low and jaw clenched. He will keep skating. There’s no other option.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that there is some description of violence in a dream. If this is likely to bother you, stop when you get to "Victor dreams of his first rink." You can start again at "He wakes in a sweat." See notes at the end of the chapter for a brief summary of the nightmare.

_The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy._

_\- Camus_

 

“Vitya, again?”

“Once more, Yakov. There’s something…” Victor trails off. There’s something not right, but he can’t put his finger on it. He’s struggled with this free skate routine, has never been happy with it. He’s practiced it until he ached; reviewed it over and over in the early hours of the morning. And yet, he can’t figure out what’s wrong with it.

“Fine,” Yakov waves his hand dismissively, “Let’s see.”

And Victor goes again. He’s flying, he’s beautiful, he’s tragic.

“Vitya,” Yakov says, oddly gently, when he finishes it, “Go home. It’s late.”  Ah he hates it. This man has practically raised him on the ice, and now there’s pity in his eyes. Victor doesn’t need pity. He’s the three-time-consecutive World Championship gold medallist, and eight-time Russian champion; nobody should be pitying him.

Still, there’s something wrong. But if Yakov can’t – or won’t – help him then there’s no point staying on the ice.

“See you tomorrow Vitya.”

“No? I’m going to Switzerland tomorrow?” Victor says uncertainly. He double-checked the tickets this morning too. It’s definitely tomorrow. Yakov’s face goes red. In patches. It’s fascinating to watch. His cheeks flush first, and then his neck. Everywhere else goes red in splodges after that. The whole process from human to tomato takes about 20 seconds, all up. Victor laughs, “Did I forget to tell you? Hah, sorry!”

“You’re not sorry in the slightest,” Yakov growls.

“Of course, I am. A little. But no harm done.” Yakov splutters.

“No harm? What are you doing? For how long?”

“Three weeks. I’m going to visit Stéphane,” Victor frowns, looks at Yakov and mimics disappointment, “Honestly Yakov, I’ve been skating competitively for 12 years. I think I should know what I’m doing by know.”

“You should,” Yakov repeats, changing the emphasis. His face is still red, but he looks calmer, “Not telling your coach, my God. You’ll drive me insane.”

“Ship has sailed,” Victor trills. Yakov rolls his eyes.

“Just come back with the free skate fixed. The emotion is missing.”

“Will do!” Victor calls over his shoulder.

 

He solves the problem. In a matter of speaking. He comes back with a new, better routine. Cossack dance moves, and some new spins courtesy of Stéphane. It’s an unusual program. It’s Russian, renewed tradition. The music has feeling, and a purpose. He doesn’t need to make a story – the moves and music alone will enthuse the crowd. He’s excited with it. It’s everything that was missing from the last one.

“Vitya,” Yakov says, arms crossed, at the rink side, “There are no quads.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” He can see Yakov grit his teeth. Even after 18 years, he can still rile this man up. Small victories, “I don’t think it needs them.”

“Vitya.”

“Fine.” They shake on it, because Yakov is old-fashioned, and Victor loves some pomp and circumstance.

 

He knows what the commentators will say when they see it. He can picture the headline now: Nikiforov surprises again, or Vitya pride of Russia. It’s been the same for years. Which is good – he’s succeeded in his goal of constant evolution of pushing the envelop, climbing to new heights. It’s important, in this era. People who repeat get overtaken. And the only person who overtakes Victor Nikiforov is Victor Nikiforov, he thinks with rock-heavy pride.

But lately, he feels like he’s stagnated. Not that he’ll admit it to anyone but himself. The routine is fresh, and new, and innovative, he knows that. Even if it doesn’t feel that way. He wakes up, and trains, and reviews his training, and walks Makkachin, and sleeps. He choreographs new routines, and practices them, and designs costumes, and perfects the routines, and wins gold, and then repeat. And for what? The pushes the musing away, and does what he does best: he rains, he skates, he gets better.

 

Yakov brings more students to watch him practice now. Most of them look dazzled. It’s cute. They look at Victor as if he’s a miracle. Some children look upset when they watch. They’re the ones who won’t last, he knows this already. You can’t succeed if you begrudge other talent; you need to soak it up. Sure enough, he never sees those faces for too long.

Recently, there’s one child that interests Victor more than the others. He looks at Victor how Victor used to watch Stéphane: eyes narrowed, focussed. The child’s eyes track him across the ice, cataloguing. He looks like an assassin.

“His name is Yuri Plisetsky,” Yakov tells him, “He’s good. He’s very good. Better than you at that age.” Victor laughs. He doesn’t doubt it. He never had that natural killer instinct. It just never occurred to him to give up.

“I look forward to his future. I hope it is bright,” That’s all there is to say, really. Yuri smirks. Victor is delighted. He skates with renewed effort.

 

He leaves out some of the quads at the Grand Prix Final, replaces hem with even more spins and steps. Yakov is furious. He still wins, for his “brilliant artistry”.

He steps up to the reporters and cameras for the usual post-ceremony interview. He’s got his usual speech prepared. He can imagine it:

“Congratulations, Victor. How do you feel about your victory?” And he’ll say,

“Thank you. It’s always wonderful. Especially this year with my free skate dedicated to Russia.”

Only, the congratulations don’t come. They jump straight to asking him what’s next, to commenting on his routine. He feels off-kilter. It’s harder than normal to fake cheer. He’s sure he’ll be punished for it in tomorrow’s newspapers. Will they accuse him of arrogance, or will they suspect he’s hiding an injury – again? He doesn’t really care either way. Someone’s always accusing him of something. Lately it’s been that he steals his choreography. He checks the next morning. Apparently he has no personality. That would explain why he doesn’t care, he thinks darkly.

 

The gold medal felt heavy around his neck on the podium, and it still feels heavy that night. They used to feel like the sun: something to strive for, to fly towards. Now they’re just rocks, covered in dirt. They weigh him down and keep his head bowed; he can’t see the sun anymore. He doesn’t fly. He trudges. Goes through the motions.

His mother texts him: << Congratulations, Vitya! )) >>

His apathy disgusts him, suddenly. But it feels too reasonable to easily dismiss. He’s unworthy of the gold, surly, with his worthless bad attitude. He donates the prize money to charity. He doesn’t feel lighter for it. He looks up how much his gold medals would be worth if he auctioned hem off. Then, later that night, and much further into the vodka bottle, how much they’d be worth if he melted them all down. He closes the tabs guilty the next morning, and goes on an early run with Makkachin. He hopes pounding the pavement will drive out the pounding guilt in his head. It doesn’t. It doesn’t help with the hangover either.

 

“Are you depressed?” Yakov asks him, with characteristic sensitivity. Still, Victor’s stunned. Yakov hasn’t asked him about his feelings in years; hasn’t needed to.

“No,” He cringes as his response comes out sounding more like a question than the laughing dismissal he was going for.

“You’ve just won the Grand Prix. You’re the favourite by a long margin for the Russian championship, European Championship and Worlds – if you keep the quads, next time, please – and you’re an Olympic gold medallist – twice!”

“I’m young and beautiful, multi-consecutive World Champion” Victor interrupts.

“So why the hell do you look so…so flat?” Yakov continues, glaring at Victor. This is my life, Victor thinks. The ice and Yakov and a cupboard of shining medals. No friends, no lover, no warmth. Just the cold and a man who can only express his concern through anger. He stops that line of thought firmly; he should be grateful someone is expressing concern at all.

“I’m fine Yakov,” He says firmly, cracking a smile.

“Vitya. You don’t have to be.”

“I’m fine.”

 

He wins gold at Russia and at the European Championship. He overhears the whispers, the snide remarks against him. Chris rebukes them. It’s nice but unnecessary. He really doesn’t care. He wings gold at Worlds. It’s not the first time someone’s won all four in a year, but it’s the first time someone’s done it two years in a row. He doesn’t wait to hear the remarks this time though. Instead, he flies home straight away. He spends a week at the hospital, then another one drinking, and a third on the couch with Makkachin.

He remembers the first time he won a skating competition. He remembers how joyous his mother had been. She had cheered for him after every single one, every time he won. He’s never going to hear her ‘Congratulations, Vitya!’ again. Now he has Makkachin, who runs to greet him at the door. And Yakov, with his gruff voice and personality. He’s never going to be asked ‘Are you having fun? Are you happy?’ again. It’s a good thing, maybe. He can’t imagine he’ll be able to honestly say ‘yes’ again.

 

The off-season is a relief in a way it’s never been before. Yakov tells him, voice soft – it doesn’t suit him – to ‘take some time’. But Victor doesn’t need time. There’s a surplus of time. He knows, rationally, that he doesn’t actually have too much more time. He’s already relatively old as far as figure skaters go. He can feel it in his knees more every season. And yet, he feels as if there’s this weight of time in front of him. Not endless possibilities. He doesn’t feel that way anymore. More as if he’s been climbing for so long but now he can’t push higher. There’s a ceiling, or maybe there’s not even anything higher. Maybe this is it: no matter how much more he pushes up, he’ll always have the same view. The same empty expanse.

It’s dramatic. He’s dramatic. He goes back to work. He keeps skating. What else is there to do?

That’s what he says to Yakov, who berates him when he comes back to the rink. That’s what he says to the interviewers who dare to ask how he will approach this new season without his number one fan. What else is there to do?

 

Skating is a different game for him now. He’s not skating to win; he’s skating to skate better. Before he was getting better to win. Now it’s for its own sake. Can he beat his last record? Can he surprise the audience? Do something new, something they hadn’t even conceived was possible? It’s hard this year. No choreography comes to him for months. Maybe he’s used up all of his ideas? It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. Six seasons of choreography and he’s out of ideas already?

“What am I going to do, Makkachin?” Makkachin doesn’t reply. Or maybe he does. A lick to the face is more communicative than most of what people can say, “Ah Makkachin. Youre life is simple. Food and belly rubs and being allowed to smell the flowers.”

It’s spring already. Victor puts sunflowers on her grave. ‘Spring is a good season; a season of colours and happiness and new beginnings’, she would always say. ‘Why does the flowers bloom?’ He imagines asking her. ‘Because it’s spring. That’s what they do.’

He’s a flower. He’s beautiful. He’s still blooming.

 

“It’ll do.”

“Ah Yakov. I so adore your effusive praise. I don’t know how to contain my ego.”

“Your ego needs no help from me. Not with all that gold propping you up.”

 

He wins in China. He wins in Japan. He wins the Final.

He wins in Russia. It feels like a dream. Like Groundhog Day. Georgi congratulations him. So does Mila. Yura doesn’t place in Juniors, and is far more occupied with pouting about that than paying any attention to Victor. It’s a welcome change.

“Victor!” The reporters holler his name. Georgi smiles at him. It’s twisted.

“Have fun,” He whispers, and escapes around the back. Victor turns a smile bright enough to rival the camera flashes.

“What do you have to say about the recent accusation from Alexei Samolyov?” Victor blinks at the familiar name.

“’I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Alexei Samolyov has accused you of doping and of bribing the judging panel.” How ridiculous, Victor thinks, through his haze of shock and confusion. If I were taking supplements, surely I wouldn’t need to bribe the judges – doing both seems like overkill. A reporter laughs, and Yakov groans. It’s possible he said that aloud. He smiles,

“That’s an interesting story. But just that: a story. Unless the idea is that I’ve been taking drugs and bribing judges since I was 12, I think it’s clear that I have no need for either to win.” They titter.

“Would you be willing to undergo testing?” One reporter asks. Victor recognizes him; he’s from the ISU.  Fuck them, Victor thinks viciously. Suddenly he’s red hot, burning inside. I’ve give you a decade of clean wins, consecutive titles, new world records, Olympic glory. I’ve spoken at your functions, skated at your exhibitions, done your charity promotions. I’ve never spoken ill of anyone. I’ve been your poster child ambassador for 10 years. Yakov’s massaging his back now. The gesture may be intended as grounding. It certainly pulls him out of his haze. The heat fades. The cold comes back. He’s spent too long on the ice to forget it for long.

“Of course,” He says smoothly, letting his grin slide sharper, “Although, I already do so on registration for each ISU competitive year. I certainly hope the ISU keeps track of who’s tested and passed, and who hasn’t.” The reporter frowns. Victor just keeps smiling.

 

“You handled that well,” Yakov says later. Victor grunts in thanks.

“I thought he quit skating.”

“Moved to a different club.” Victor hums. He’s not really that interested. Yakov’s still talking though, “But you didn’t seem thorwn until that ISU fleabag started talking.”

“Ah, you know,” Victor says airily, “They ask questions like that, you wonder if they’ve been paying any attention at all.” Yakov quirks an eyebrow, and Victor can’t resist adding, “Makes a man feel worthless without any admirers.” Yakov groans and tries to hit him over the head. Victor pushes back out of reach.

 

Victor dreams of his first rink. Of Olga, who held his hand when he first stepped onto the ice. He dreams of Nadia, who taught him how to do an axel, who didn’t cry when he did it better than she ever could, who had just laughed and said,

“That took me weeks to learn how to do!”

He dreams of Pavel, years later at Yakov’s rink, who was several years old. Who Victor had begged and bothered until he gave in and taught Victor to spin. He dreams of Alyona, of Evgeniya, of everyone who had to stop before they were ready. He dreams of Alexei, who stood, sullen, ignored while Victor did better. They’re angry.

“You stole from us,” They yell, hands reaching out to him. He scrambles to get away. Away from the blank eyes. The grasping fingers.

“You stole from us,” They yell again. Over and over. There’s Chris too with blue roses in his hair. And Georgi in a Russian flag. And Stéphane with the Olympic rings. There’s Alexei again, as an adult, so overcome by anger he accuses Victor of cheating. His eyes are burning. All their eyes are burning. Fingers are ash stained.

“You stole from us.”

He trips on his feet, he slips. He’s on his back on the ice. It’s cold. It burns his hands. He can’t get a hold. He can’t get up. They’re coming closer. They’re here.

They reach towards him. They pull at him. Fingernails scratch at his skin. It hurts.

It hurts!

He shuts his eyes and bleeds. Bleeds on the ice. Not the first time. They pull off his skin in ribbons. He’s gold underneath. They rip and scratch and God – help! Anyone, help, please! Help! It hurts! – they’re skinning him. Right down to his gold skeleton.

 

He wakes in a sweat. Makkachin whines. He doesn’t go back to sleep.

 

“Yakov,” He says quietly, a few days before Worlds, “Do you think I should retire?” Yakov drops his file. It would be funny, if Victor felt capable of laughing.

“Vitya, what the hell are you thinking? No! The answer is no,” Yakov hurries to say. He must have a pretty scary face on right now if Yakov feels like he needs to actually answer him, Victor thinks.

“It’s just, I’ve been winning for a while. The past three world records are all mine.”

“Yes, you’re incredible, Vitya, we all know this,” Yakov interrupts impatiently.

“No, I mean – am I being selfish, by continuing? I feel guilty.” Yakov stares at him. He stares at Yakov. Then Yakov sits down heavily, puts his face in his hands. Victor edges closer. He didn’t mean to break Yakov.

“How can you be 26 and still a child?’ yakov mutters, “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Hey!” Yakov sits up and glares.

“No, you shouldn’t retire because you feel ‘guilty’ for winning,” He actually makes the quotation marks with his fingers. How insulting, “Most athletes never want to retire. They’re forced to when their bodies break down. You’re - what? Bored?” Yes, yes, Victor thinks, desperately, “You’re being a condescending prick, Vitya. ‘There’s no point in competing because no-one is good enough’ – is that what you’re thinking?”

“But no-one is,” Victor says, eyes narrowed. That’s not what he was thinking at all, is it? He’s not sure anymore. Not sure of anything, except: “It’s just me.”

“You need to sort yourself out. If your competitors hear that you don’t consider them worth your time, your reputation will be ruined forever. Reporters? Forget it. There’s no coming back from that kind of arrogance.”

“Is it arrogance if it’s the truth?” He snarls. Now he’s just arguing for the sake of it.

“It’s disrespectful. It’s insulting. It’s beneath you.”

“Everything – _everyone_ – is beneath me. That’s what I’m saying,” Yakov’s lips curl. An ugly snarl.

“Your mother would be ashamed.” Victor rears back. His face burns as if the words were a slap. His throat hurts. He manages to retort,

“My mother wanted me to be happy.” Yakov seems to deflate at that.

“So what would make you happy?” Victor sits down beside Yakov, drained. His muscles have been sapped of strength.

“I don’t know.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. This man is the only family I have, other than my dog, Victor thinks.

“Well,” Yakov says finally, clapping his hands on his thighs, “I think we can make your routine even better. I have an idea on how to improve on your transitions.” Victor hears what he’s trying to say: ‘well, I can try to help make you better.’ It’s not perfect but it will do.

“Thanks Yakov.”

 

And Victor gets back on the rink. He keeps skating. He keeps winning gold. He keeps getting better? What else is there to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In his nightmare, Victor sees people from his past as violent and attempting to hurt him. This stems from Victor's fear that he is hated for his success, and his belief that he is fundamentally unworthy of it.


	4. Chapter 4

_Then Fame declared that, conquered by the song of Orpheus, for the first and only time the hard cheeks of the fierce Eumenides were wet with tears._

_\- Ovid_

 

“Again, Yakov? I don’t want to go,” Victor knows he’s whining, is aware it’s hardly appropriate behaviour, and quite frankly, doesn’t give a toss, “It’s boring and no-one talks to me anyway, except Chris and even that’s only for the first half-hour before he finds someone more…flexible. What is the point of going to a social event if no-one will socialize with you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Vitya,” Yakov replies. He’s not even looking at him. How offensive, “Of course you have to go. It’s not negotiable.”

“Your face is not negotiable,” Victor mutters childishly. Yuri raises an eyebrow. It’s not fair that a 14-year-old can look so judgemental. Although, Victor ponders, is there anything else to being 14 except scowling and judgement? Ah yes! The fear of acne. He remembers now. Tough times, tough times indeed.

“Stop smirking at me!” Yuri growls. Victor laughs. He loves this kid – he’s easier to wind up than Yakov.

 

The banquet looks like it’ll be boring, just as Victor thought. The room is hideously decorated – why people haven’t learnt that brown belongs to the 70s and should have died then and there, Victor really doesn’t know. Still, the food is decent and the alcohol plentiful, so at least the ISU didn’t go too cheap. Yakov threatened to disown and disembowel him if he got too drunk, so Victor has his requisite one glass and then sticks to the water.

He strikes up a conversation with Chris, who’s doing better than ever this year. He’s a serious competitor, even if his style is a little more ostentatious than Victor would personally go for. He’s fairly sure Chris doesn’t actually get aroused during his performances, if only because generally speaking one’s blood supply is priority directed to the muscles needed for jumps, not anywhere else, but he’s never been certain. Chris’ penchant for sexual innuendo is fun, though. It’s easy conversation, and he shares Victor’s more progressive and playful stance on sex, gender, and affection, and most things, really. He wonders if the Swiss skating team are as irritated with Chris as Russia is with him.

He keeps getting distracted by the cute Japanese skater, Katsuki Yuuri. The one who flunked his performance. They haven’t met, but Victor had been gutted for him. The man had looked terrible. They all have bad skates, but this wasn’t a bad skate. He’d said something asinine at the time. God, he’s stunning.

 “You’re staring,” Chris tells him, “See something you like?” Victor laughs at the ridiculous motion of Chris’ eyebrows. Chris laughs too, continuing, “You look like you want to take a bite out of him!”  Victor glances at Chris out of the corner of his eye, and lets his lips turn salacious,

“Don’t you?”

“I’m well-fed at home,” Victor raises an eyebrow. Chris shrugs, “It’s a new thing.”

“Well,” Victor hums, lifting a glass to his lips, lowering his gaze, “Congratulations.” Chris rolls his eyes.

“You’re not playing fair. I already know you’re the most gorgeous person in the room. You don’t have to turn it on for me.”

“Turn you on, you mean?” Chris flushes. It’s adorable, “I do mean it though. Tell me all about them!”

 

Victor keeps an eye on Katsuki as he powers through champagne glasses, and eventually, bottles.

“He’s crazy,” Mila whispers as Katsuki starts dancing.

“He’s amazing,” Victor whispers back, enthralled. He’s spent years poking fun at the official skating bodies, and yet it’s never occurred to him to treat the ‘celebratory banquet’ as a real party. And this guy has _moves._ Dear Lord. He must be spectacular on the ice. His hips.

Victor coughs. Chris cackles.

“You’re a bad friend.”

“You’re a bad actor. You couldn’t look more interested if you tried. You’re drooling.”

“I am not!”

 

(Later, much later, Victor will tell Yuuri how much fun he had that night. He will curse himself for only knowing three languages. He can’t possible convey how he feels, how important that night was. ‘Fun’? ‘Fun’ is nothing. Yuuri will be embarrassed, as he always is when reminded of how they met.

“I was a wreck,” Yuuri will whine.

“You were a shining star,” Victor will correct, “You challenged Yura to a dance-off! You made Chris look like an amateur on the pole. It was brilliant! You were like the sun, or a beacon! You drew me in.”

Yuuri won’t understand, but Victor will keep trying to explain. How Yuuri flicked a switch that hadn’t been touched in years. How Yuuri flooded his life with light and lightness. How Yuuri was a fool, yes, but there was nothing wrong with being foolish. How Yuuri had inspired Victor to be a fool too, and how being a ‘fool’ was the best decision Victor ever made.)

 

Katsuki begs him to be his coach. He wins a dance-off for him, as if Victor were a maiden with a hand to be won, a hand worth something. It’s silly, and meaningless, but still. Victor is being wooed by a drunken, dancing, beautiful boy no less. What more could any man want?

He’s too taken-aback to respond.

His brain has been shocked into over-drive. There are so many thoughts running through his head, like the curious near-silent whirring of a computer working hard. Do you mean it? Do you want to go out for a drink tomorrow? Do you even swing this way? I’m sorry about your skate, it happens to the best of us, I mean, I’ve never flunked a competition like that but still, I promise it had no impact on how beautiful you are. Dear God are you okay? You look like you haven’t slept for 48 hours and you have definitely sailed past drunk into completely smashed. How are you still so attractive? He settles for trying to make sure Katsuki gets to bed okay.

 

“If his tango is anything to be believed, he’d be a great fuck,” Chris says at the end of the evening, “ _I’m_ going to be thinking of him and I wasn’t the one being spun around.”

“So crass, Christophe,” Victor rebukes.

“I don’t hear a disagreement,” Victor doesn’t say anything and Chris laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

“Oh shut up.”

 

The off-season is dreadful. The winter is lifeless; the spring makes him sick. He thinks of contacting Katsuki, but he doesn’t seem to have a social media presence to speak of. Katsuki doesn’t contact him. Victor is unexpectedly hurt. He skates pointlessly, meanders on the ice. He’s uninspired, yet again. He finds himself skating out the tango Katsuki led him on. It’s petty. He doesn’t care.

 

“You’re moping,” Yakov points out, apparently having hit his limit for Victor’s theatrics.

“Tactless, Yakov. You should have better manners.”

“And you should be able to function like an adult. What’s the matter?”

“He’s mooning over the Japanese guy at the banquet,” Mila pipes up, unfazed by Victor’s glare, “I’m not surprised. The way he danced on the pole. Delicious! I’d like to – ”

“Shut up,” Yuri forces out through gritted teeth. She looks chastised. Clearly, Yuri’s glares are more effective than his.

“Careful, Yura. If you keep scowling your face will freeze like that!”

“Careful, Vitya,” The kid parrots, “If you keep moping I’m going to take your place as Russia’s top skater. Oh wait, I’m going to do that anyway!” Victor sighs. The kid is good but his comebacks leave a lot to be desired.

 

Mila sends him a link a few months later.

<< You might want to see this. >>

It’s Katsuki. Skating Victor’s routine. He’s beautiful. There’s no sound on the video, but Victor can hear the song, the haunting piano. He’s so expressive.

Katuski isn’t in competition form – Victor had heard he rumour that he was retiring. Guess it’s true. But he makes the routine look hopeful, not desperate. It’s nice. It’s hard to put this Katsuki and the one that fell apart on the ice together. Was it nerves, Victor wonders? Was he ill? It didn’t seem like a bad day. And then he thinks of the drunken dancer, so confident and charismatic and fun-loving. The man is a mystery. How exciting.

Victor tips his head back, and closes his eyes. He remembers.

“Be my coach,” Katsuki had said, or slurred really. He was drunk off his face, limbs uncoordinated and glasses askew, but the request had sounded genuine.

Victor looks around at his apartment, sparsely decorated. It’s neat and clean. It’s beautiful, and modern, and empty.

“What do you think, Makkachin?” The dog barks. Victor thinks. On the one hand, there’s a beautiful man calling his name. On the other, there’s an empty apartment and another gold rock to chase. A chance against a certainty.

Victor makes a choice.

 

“You’re doing what!?” Yakov is enraged. Actually completely infuriated. But Victor is calm. He’s throwing away his career, maybe. He could probably come back – Stéphane did that, others have too. He’s being ungrateful? No! He’s so grateful for everything Yakov has done.

And he thinks to himself: he wants to do something new. He wants to see something new. Every season for so long he’s pushed and heaved up this mountain, and the view is always the same. He’s tired. So goddamn tired. And he aches. His heart aches. The medals and the expectation and the loneliness are too heavy a burden to bear. Let Yakov and Georgi and the press think what they want. He doesn’t care if they belive he’s only thinking with his dick. He’s going to make a choice, a real choice, and take a chance.

“You won’t last a minute,” Yakov says. Victor hears what he means: you’re only good for skating, and you’ll miss it once you leave. Maybe he is and maybe he will, but God, at least that’ll be different.

He lets himself acknowledge the truth, the ugly truth: he’s not happy. Here, doing what he’s doing. Katsuki offered something new, and maybe beautiful. Victor’s desperate enough that he’ll take whatever he can get.

 

Victor fantasizes on the plane. He’s not one to engage in daydreams normally, but it’s hard not to. The man courted Victor, invited him to his home, into his life, danced with him – held him in his arms in an extremely suggestive dance. This is going to be good, he tells himself.

He arrives, heart beating fast in rhythm: Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri.

The man is terrified by him. This was not part of the plan.

 

Victor soon learns that Yuuri is terrified of most things. A non-exhaustive list that emerges from the first few weeks includes naked men, flirting, demonstrations of attraction and affection, straight-forward questions, failure, time limits, Yura (this is one of the most understandable ones, Victor acknowledges), and unfortunately, him.  Victor knows he has a reputation for emotional obtuseness, but it’s not hard to see that he’s overwhelmed the poor man. So he backs off. And watches, and listens. Because no matter how much it seems like the faltering, falling skater is all there is to Yuuri, Victor knows how the man can dance. His body was honest that night. He wants to see that again.

Yuuri is afraid, and anxious. But Yuuri is also honest – sometimes even when he doesn’t mean to be. Victor pays close attention, and learns. Yuuri is brave, underneath the stutter and the soft kindness. He is rock. He is solidly _good_ and in his core, there’s molten steel.

Yuuri has loyalty in spades, and a conscience that won’t budge: a deep-rooted knowledge of what he deserves no matter how scared he is. Yuuri takes criticism and suggestions well; the sharpness rolls off of him, and he takes what he needs. Yuuri is slow to start, but once you’ve got him rolling, he’s hard to stop. Victor loses count of how many times he calls out, disbelieving,

“Again Yuuri?” And how many times Yuuri asks, so hopefully,

“Again, Victor?”

 

“Come home Vitya. Stop playing at coaching,” Yakov pleads.

“It’s not a game, Yakov.” It is, Victor thinks, but not in the way people think. Aren’t all sports just a game, in the end? We play on the ice, and they tell us who’s best. If you play long enough and well enough, they call you a God. But you’re just a play-God, one who needs the approval of a panel and a certain set of numbers. It’s a farce.

“Does your reputation – your career – mean so little to you? Are your medals so worthless?” Not worthless, no, but so very, very pointless. Victor says some glib in response, like,

“Not at all! But I think it’s time to share!” Yakov growls, and Victor can hear Yuri shout indistinguishably in the background. Probably about how he’ll be winning gold, “Good luck, Yurio!”

Yakov hangs up.

 

Victor messes up. Not as often as Yakov probably predicted, but more often than he would have liked. He’s too honest, or not honest enough. He makes Yuuri cry. He says the wrong thing. It takes him months to figure out when Yuuri wants a coach, when Yuuri needs a coach, or hen Yuuri wants a friend.

It comes to a head one day. Yuuri fails every jump. He’s too tense. He’s distracted. Maybe he didn’t sleep well, Victor wonders.

“I’m fine,” Yuuri says, which is obviously a lie. He needs to take a break, calm down, and get his head back into the game. He needs to let go of whatever is causing the nerves. Victor tells him this. Yuuri’s face crumples, and he clenches his fist. Victor takes a step back, instinctively. He can’t tell whether Yuuri wants to cry or punch him.

“Stop it!” Yuuri says, voice thick, “I already know what I need to do.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Victor tries to placate, hands held up.

“You always do this. Like it’s so simple.”

“It can be. You just need to – ”

“Stop it!” Yuuri tries to scream. His voice comes out strangled. Ah, he’s crying. “Just listen to me when I tell you how I feel. Stop talking at me. Stop pretending that I can just will away how I feel. It doesn’t work that way for me!”

Oh, Victor thinks, with sudden clarity. He’s been treating Yuuri like a problem to be solved, as if Yuuri’s thoughts and fears could be stopped with the press of a button. How inadvertently insulting.

 

Victor keeps trying. Victor gets better. It’s rewarding.

 

Late at night, with only Makkachin, he thinks that maybe he’s only now learning how to relate to other people. That life isn’t just about getting better, about drive and perfection, and demanding criticism. That there was a difference between a friend and a coach, that people needed both. Victor has been a mindless robot for too long.

“How depressing,” He whispers. To not even know how much you were missing out on.

 

They speak in English most of the time. Yuuri is better than he is. Although, given that Victor is actually willing to talk, he thinks they are pretty even. That’s a mean thought, he chastises himself. Yuuri seems to physically struggle with words sometimes. Victor wants to know what he’s thinking, wishes he could climb inside of Yuuri’s head to hear his thoughts. The ferocity and desperation of that desire surprises him. He’s never cared before what someone thought of him. But Yuuri looks at him sometimes, and Victor thinks, _maybe._ He feels it in the pounding of his heart when he jobs, his pulse when he lies quietly at night, his breathing as he warms up around the rink: maybe, maybe, maybe.

 

Getting out of bed each morning becomes easier. So much easier now that there’s hope outside of his bedroom door. Smiling is easier, jogging is easier, falling asleep is easier. Skating is easier.

  
Victor falls in love. It’s terrifying. Victor learns how to love. It’s hard. It always looks so easy in the movies. Two people dance, and stare into each other’s eyes, and smile. There’s music in the background. It’s cheesy. It’s beautiful. He and Yuuri danced, but they don’t talk about it. He’s not going to push. He can feel Yuuri staring at him sometimes, and wonders if Yuuri can feel him stare too. They smile and laugh a lot. It’s not enough, but it’s so much more than Victor has ever had before. Yuuri makes music on the ice; he’s beautiful. But Yuuri is also grumpy in the mornings, and his hands shake. Victor is clingy, and tactless. Learning to love Yuuri is hard. Trying to become a person worthy of being loved in return is hard. But he does it. He grows in ways he couldn’t have fathomed. It feels like his heart is growing stronger, pumping firmer, more steady. He feels like his bones are heavier, more solid, more capable of bearing any burden, his own or Yuuri’s. Victor gets better.

He thinks to his mother, ‘I’m happy’. ‘I’m having fun’. Thinks, ‘he won’t tell me but he loves me, I’m sure’. He can almost hear her say, ‘Just because you’re a bad actor, doesn’t mean everyone else is. Be careful.’ But being careful never made him happy.

 

It’s hard to watch Yuuri sometimes. He shines so brightly on the ice, it blinds Victor. He tries to watch as a coach, critically, looking for flaws and examples of perfection. He tries to watch as a competitor, looking for ways to improve, manoeuvres and techniques to pilfer. Most of the time though, he watches as an admirer. He can’t help it. He was drawn to Yuuri from the start; he dances and makes his own music. It shuts off all of Victor’s thoughts. All he can do is sit and watch, entranced.

 

“You’re in love,” Mila crows, laughing hysterically. Victor just smiles and srhugs. She can’t seem him over the phone, but he’s sure she knows.

“It’s probably a good thing you aren’t here,” She continues, “Between you and Georgi, Yura would probably spend all day vomiting.”

“That sounds unpleasant for you. But more concerning, he’d lose too many fluids and vitamins to compete,” Mila chuckles, “Really, you should tell Yakov I’m doing him a favour, Keeping Russia’s next champion alive.” Mila hollers

“Ah,” she says, laughter finally dying down, “We do miss you Vitya.” He smiles.

“Of course you do.”

 

He watches Yuuri keep skating. The road to improvement is not a smooth one. It twists and turns. Sometimes you get worse before you get better. Sometimes you slip and fall on your face. Victor is intimately acquainted with the road to the Grand Prix Final. He knows every step, every gnarled root designed to trip you up, every place you need to jump and the longer roundabout routes to take if you can’t quite reach the next ledge. He hopes he’s helping. That his outstretched hand and clumsy directions are a useful guide. That he can carry some of the load. It’s lighter when shared.

It’s good. Yuuri gets better. Victor gets better. They become closer. Victor is happy.

 

“Let’s end this,” Yuuri says, and breaks Victor’s heart. In between the rushing of his ears and pain radiating from his chest, Victor remembers thinking that all skaters’ hearts are made of glass.  But he was wrong. Yuuri’s isn’t. Yuuri’s heart is a diamond, stronger and sharper than anything else, made from pressure and heat and all the more beautiful for it. His heart is glass though. In three words, Yuuri picked up his heart and threw it against a wall. Victor shatters. How pathetic, how dramatic, how useless.

(“I didn’t expect you to cry!” Yuuri will explain later, “I was trying to do the right thing!” And Victor will remember it as a lesson: perfect people are not infallible. Cracks can be fixed. There is more than one way to break. Everything is easier together.)

 

Yuuri wins silver. He’s beautiful, it makes Victor cry. He skates like a dream. Their pair skate _is_ a dream, Victor is sure of it. There’s no way there could be a such a perfect moment in his life. Maybe this whole year has been a dream, and he’s going to wake up, heaving his way to the Grand Prix yet again. But Yuuri’s silver is real, and Yura’s gold is real. He knows – you always lose some of the detail in a dream. He’s gleeful, he’s proud. He feels light again, like he used to after a win.

But it’s not his win. They both broke his records, he realizes. It’s a train crash thought, complete with screeching brakes and the whiplash jerk to the neck. I take a year out, and my records are broken.

“I’m an idiot,” He says to himself. I’m not done; my ego isn’t gone. Yakov’s going to have a field day. He’s going to be mocked for months. He doesn’t care. He’s fired up. He wants to _win._ He wants to keep skating.

But not alone. He never again wants to push and climb on his own; never again wants to fall victim to that pointless, punishing fate. Not now that he knows what it’s like to push that stone, push oneself, hand-in-hand with someone else. This year was a win for him. He’s won back something he lost long ago. He won something new. His heart beats: love, love, love. Everything on the ice is love.

 

(“Are you okay?” Yuuri will ask. Victor will laugh. He’s so much better than okay. Yuuri will just look confused, and Victor will think, as always, that he’s adorable.

“I want to skate again,” And Yuuri’s grin will be brighter than the sun, “We’ll make it work.”

Victor will keep skating. Yuuri too. They will keep getting better. There are plenty of other things they could do, but this is what they will choose.)


End file.
